Five Valentine's Days
by darcyfarrow
Summary: After all they've been through, Rumplestiltskin is determined to give Belle the perfect Valentine's Day, so he turns to Rumbelle writers for guidance.


Rumplestiltskin/Mr. Gold seldom lost arguments, a fact that would surprise no one either in the Enchanted Forest or the seaside town of Storybrooke. Few people even bothered to try to change his mind about anything, whether it was codicils in his leases or his insulting habit of ordering two filet mignons and then tossing the second one to the stray mutt that hung around Granny's back alley. Ruby especially resented him for that: she took it as a comment, far from favorable, upon the food.

So Rumplestiltskin/Gold usually got his way and the people he dealt with were left tight-lipped and white-knuckled. In both worlds, however, there was one notable exception, just one person who could leave him befuddled and apparently pleased to have lost to her. Nobody quite understood how the Beast Tamer did it, but they'd long ago given up trying to analyze the ways of love.

When Henry's rescue squad, including Baelfire, returned from Neverland, Rumplestiltskin was heard to vow never to go adventuring again, and indeed what was left in the wide, wild world to lure him, for now he had everything he needed and everything he wanted and far more than he'd ever dare dream of, right here in this humble hamlet. And though he mellowed, settling contentedly into the roles he had always longed for, over his long life, and though he evolved into almost a benign figure hovering silently in the background, still, no one argued with him. Except her.

Well, arguing would be too harsh a word for it, because though he might raise his voice and throw his hands into the air, he never yelled or bared his crocodile teeth to her. Even in the heat of the moment–and in the early years, until she'd smoothed out his rough ways, there were quite a few heated moments–he bore in mind just how incredibly, undeservedly lucky he was that she didn't slam the door on him and abandon him for someone gentle, good natured, simply good, like herself. And so when they. . . debated. . .and she somehow, in her earnestness and sweetness dumped his point of view on its head, he thanked her for it, not always in words, for he could still be a stubborn man, but never again beastly to her, but he always thanked her with his eyes. She knew how he felt and what he hoped for their life together. She could read the truth of his feelings in his eyes.

And then came February. In the storefronts of all the shops except his, up went cutout Cupids aiming arrows at construction paper hearts. Children on their walk to school yammered about the Valentines they would be giving out this year. In Clark's, the endcaps overflowed with boxes of candy, "conversation" hearts for the kids, satin-ribboned boxes of chocolate truffles for the parents. And on Lilac Avenue, the ivy-hidden cottage called Game of Thorns opened each morning to lines winding along the sidewalk.

The holiday, which Gold recognized as merely a very successful and clever commercial ploy, had every male in town in its thrall. They'd huddle in corners, pretending to be talking about Peyton Manning or Toro's new line of snowblowers, but in reality they were commisserating with each other over the never-to-be-solved conundrum "what do women want." Whether the woman in question was a wife, girlfriend or mother, every male in town had some lady he wanted to express his fondness and gratitude for; even more problematic, every male knew that, on February 15, when the women showed off their Valentines to each other, the givers of those gifts would be measured, and no husband, boyfriend or son wanted the depth of his love to be deemed inadequate. Even Henry, poor lucky lad, had to start planning early, because he had two moms, a grandma and a. . . a grand-girlfriend (?) to buy for, and each gift had to be just as sweet as the others so that none of his beloved ladies would feel underappreciated. Fortunately for him, one of his grandpas owned a shop full of interesting and pretty things, and the other grandpa–well, who would know more about the right Valentine gift than Prince Charming ("We were cursed" explaining David Nolan's lapse in romantic judgment during the great Valentine card mixup of 2012)?

But alas for Rumplestiltskin/Gold, who had only one lady to win over, but whose lady was of the "you don't have to get me anything, dear" type. His forays into romance over his three hundred years had been few and shortlived, and while he learned much about listening and caring and sharing, he didn't know beans about bouquets and greeting cards. It confounded him, for example, that Belle seemed equally delighted over the wildflowers he'd picked for her one summer morning and the Tiffany earrings he gave her at Christmas. This Valentine's Day, though, he wanted to enchant her (not literally, of course). She deserved to be showered wth tokens of his immeasurable esteem, for to him, she was more than the Beast Tamer: she was a Miracle Worker.

But to whom to turn for advice? After the Lacey fiasco, he wasn't about to plead with Charming again. . . Archie knew a thing or two about the human heart, but he lacked practical experience. . . though Emma and Bae loved each other, their relationship was more about passion than romance. . . Snow was the queen of romance but she didn't know Belle all that well.

So he turned to his most trusted source, one that never judged him or spilled his secrets: Google.

"Romantic Valentine gifts" got him four million hits.

"How to please your girlfriend" got him–well, a whole lot of trouble.

"What to give Belle French for Valentine's Day." Perfect. Except the website his friend Google connected him to wasn't a store or a ladies' magazine or a book of relationship advice but rather a collection of stories, five stories featuring a heroine named Belle French and a villain named Rumplestiltskin.

Egads. He skimmed the five stories, then read each again closely and critically. All described Rumplestiltskin's attempts to make a special Valentine's Day for his beloved (where was Gold in all this? How come Rumple was always the main character? The pawnbroker felt insulted). In every story, Rumplestiltskin succeeded in making Belle happy. Ah, so these were fantasy stories, Rumple/Gold scoffed: what he needed was reality. Drama, even a comedy.

Still, the writers seemed to know a lot about him and Belle. . . .He decided to take one of the stories as his model. But which? All of them had merits; any of these ideas would make Belle happy.

And then he remembered the carol "The Twelve Days of Christmas." He didn't have to choose one. His lady fair deserved _five_ Valentine's Days.

* * *

**First Valentine**

For the first day of Valentine's Week, Rumple/Gold chose to give Belle a night of dancing. In the Dark Castle, he'd caught her dancing with mops and brooms when she was supposed to be cleaning. In fact, it was when he returned early from a deal and popped in on her waltzing with his dragonskin jacket that he realized she was attracted to him. A month later, when he'd finally stopped trying to figure it out, he'd dared to wonder if in some unfathomable way, he might be good for her. He'd known from the start she would be good for him.

So dancing was a special thing for both of them, but here in Storybrooke, with his bad ankle, he'd never asked her to dance, and he resented himself for that. She deserved to be adorned in a billowing ballgown and swept up in a graceful waltz. And so, right after Christmas, Rumple/Gold swallowed his pride and called Whale for a consultation. Gritting his teeth, Rumple admitted, "I need science."

Frankenwhale ignored the fierce grip with which Rumple clutched his cane. The temptation was too strong: he laughed so loud his receptionist came running in. He laughed himself voiceless, then he laughed soundlessly, banging a clipboard against his desk to fill in the silence. But an hour later, Frankenwhale recovered his professional demeanor and put Rumple on a plan of physical therapy. "The injury's too old to fix with surgery, but we can build up your endurance."

"One night of dancing, that's all I ask," Rumgold mumbled. Then he dared to look Whale in the eye. "Please."

This time Whale didn't laugh. "We can do that, Mr. Gold. We'll start therapy tomorrow."

On the evening of February 9, two boxes were delivered at the library. After finishing a reference transaction, Belle carried the boxes back to her office to open them in private. The bigger box, from Heaven-Sent Fashions, contained a sapphire blue silk and chiffon gown. The smaller box, from Moncton Shoes, contained gold slippers and a note: "Tomorrow, 7 pm, we dance. All my love, Rumple."

On February 10 at 7 pm, in at a charity ball that, to the town's amazement, had been arranged and paid for by Moneybags Gold, to benefit the animal shelter, the first, last, and every dance in between were led by the tuxedo-clad host and his silk-slippered lady fair.

* * *

"Oh, Rumple, it's perfect." She rested her head against his shoulder. They were a good fit: their bodies were made to dance together.

"There's more," he informed her. "Save tomorrow for me."

* * *

**Second Valentine**

Taking his cue from the second Rumbelle story, Rumple/Gold, not really a morning person, arose at five a. m. and was observed at sunrise loading his Caddy with sacks from Happy Grocery. To everyone's continuing puzzlement, Gold's shop remained closed all day. And then, at 4 p.m., a tense Mr. Gold was seen sneaking around the back of Granny's Diner.

He stood in the kitchen, his designer suit dampening from the water it was collecting as he pressed against the sink, struggling to stay out of the cook's and Ruby's way as they prepared for the dinner rush. But the suit, Granny observed, was already a mess, streaked with egg yolk and dotted with granules of sugar. Granny had seen it all in her time, but still her mouth fell open, for no Storybrooker had ever seen Gold in a state of disarray. "Let me guess: you were held prisoner in a bakery."

"I came to ask"–his voice dropped low and he glanced nervously at Ruby, who stared at him openly, her hands on her hips–"if we might make a deal."

Ruby sniffed and Granny grunted. "I'm already fifty grand in debt to you, thanks to your deals."

He nodded in acknowledgement of the legitimacy of her anger. But this was for Belle, so he sucked in a breath. "Mrs. Lucas, I'm expecting an important dinner guest tonight, and I wanted to prepare her favorite dish. I've been cooking since 7:30 this morning, I've gone through six dozen eggs and four pounds of semisweet chocolate and. . ." he sounded so tired, but he looked her in the eye. "I made seven souffles–"

"And every one of them fell," Granny finished for him. He nodded, head hung in shame.

"Is this for Belle?" Ruby asked, her expression softening.

He nodded again. "A deal, Mrs. Lucas? Two months' free rent for a cooking lesson?"

"Why don't I just cook it for you? Give me an hour."

"No, I want to do it for her. It's her favorite," he added weakly. "Please."

"Good answer," Granny said. "All right, grab an apron, over there."

His face relaxed as he removed a clean apron from a hook on the pantry door. "Thank you, Mrs. Lucas, for accepting my deal."

"I don't need a deal, Mr. Gold, to help you. All I needed was for you to ask. Now, bring me a mixing bowl."

* * *

Belle breathed in deeply as he opened his door for her, and she made a beeline for the kitchen before he could even take her coat. "What are those heavenly smells? Oh, Rumple, you cooked for me! Oh, Rumple, chocolate souffle!"

He steered her back to the dining room, where he had candlelight and china and a bottle of wine waiting. "Please, sit, sweetheart. Let me serve you. This night is for you."

"Perfect, Rumple." She seized him for a kiss before he trotted off to the kitchen. "It's perfect."

"There's more. Save tomorrow for me."

* * *

**Third Valentine**

The weather was unseasonably warm on February 12, which is to say, the mercury broke the freezing point, so on this day Rumple/Gold enacted his one and only plan involving the great outdoors. He showed up at Gawain Stables at 10 a.m., just as scheduled, but instead of the former knight, an elderly woman bundled in wool scarves and a plaid coat met him at the carriage house. She offered him a cup of coffee and he accepted it, as a way to warm his hands rather than quench his thirst. "Sorry to disappoint you, young man," she said–and after that, nothing she could say would disappoint him, for it had been a good three hundred fifty years since anyone called him young. "But we won't be able to take you and your lady out today. See, it's his rhuematism. Gawain couldn't even get out of bed this morning. I hate to spoil your Valentine Day plans; they sound real romantic. But you understand, don't you? Come back, say, in June and we'll make it up to you."

Rumple/Gold set down the coffee mug and wandered over to the shiny black carriage, freshly polished just for this occasion, and he admired it, seeing it through Belle's eyes. And then he heard a nicker from the barn, followed by a stamping of hooves. "Oh, that's just Bucephulus. He saw Gawain oiling the harness last night and he thinks he's going to work today."

"There's no one to exercise him today," Rumple speculated.

"Yeah," the woman admitted, "but I'll turn him out in the pasture so he can stretch his legs. He'll be fine."

"I can do it," Rumple said abruptly. "I'd like to rent the carriage and drive it myself."

"Well, I don't know. . . .we don't usually do things that way."

"I'll pay double."

The woman's eyes brightened. "But you haven't driven a carriage before, have you? Even in the old country, you weren't the horsey type, as I recall."

A young, confident voice interrupted, "No, but I was." The woman and Rumple turned as two pairs of boots crunched across the frosted grass and approached the carriage house. The smaller pair belonged to Henry, who greeted his other grandpa and Mrs. Gawain enthusiastically. The larger pair of boots belonged to Prince David, who ran a hand along the carriage traces. "Lovely craftsmanship, Leona. I'd love to take 'er out, even if it's just for a trip around the park."

"That would be fine with me, Davy." The woman agreed. "Bu needs the work and we need the income. That okay with you, Mr. Gold? You want to give me a hand harnessing Bu, Henry?"

Rumple's mouth had fallen open and he was just now recollecting his poise. "You'd do that for me, Nolan? Spoil your own plans to drive a carriage for me and Belle?"

"Nothing spoiled, Gold. It was time for Henry's weekly riding lesson. I've been planning on teaching him to drive, anyway, so this will be the day." He clapped Rumple on the shoulder. "Here, help me pull the carriage out to the driveway." As the two men pulled the vehicle forward, Rumple offered, "I can pay you, or we can work out a deal."

David wrinkled his nose as if he found the offer distasteful. "Naw, it's just one grandpa helping out the other." Once the carriage was in position, he set his hands on his hips and watched Henry lead the horse from the barn. "You know, the way Snow and I look at it, there wouldn't be a Henry if there hadn't been a Baelfire, and there wouldn't have been a Baelfire if there hadn't been, well, you."

Rumple's lips twitched into an embarrassed smile. "An interesting way to see the situation, Mr. Nolan. And along that same line, I would not have the privilege of being a grandparent if not for you and your wife."

"We all got a good deal, I'd say."

"Indeed. Henry's a fine lad."

David reflected for a moment. "I remember you said to me once you were a fan of true love. So am I. I hope things work out for you and Belle."

"Thank you, Mr. Nolan."

"David," the prince corrected. "Call me David." He held out his hand in peace and Rumple/Gold shook it.

"Call me Rumple."

* * *

Belle snuggled up beside her beloved and he tucked a lap blanket around their knees as Henry clucked, "Hup, Bucephulus" and David shook the harness. "This is so romantic!" Belle gave Rumple a peck on the cheek. "Perfect, absolutely perfect!"

"There's more," he assured her. "Save tomorrow for me."

* * *

**Fourth Valentine**

On February 13, Rumple/Gold took guidance from the fourth Rumbelle story. Although the writer had gotten a few of the details wrong (Belle did not like butter on her popcorn, and her favorite movie was not the animated _Beauty_ _and_ _the_ _Beast_; she much preferred Cocteau's), the basic concept of the story was sound. So for tonight, Rumple and Belle would spend a quiet night in his living room, watching her favorite romantic movie as they cuddled on the couch. It was only fair that the meanest man in Maine would sit through a chick flick without griping; Belle had watched many a Western for his sake.

So on his way home from work, he stopped in at Clark's and spun the DVD rental rack. Then with a frown he spun it again. Then with a scowl he spun it again and called Sneezy over. "Hey, where's _The_ _Vow_? It was here last week."

"Someone rented it."

"You only have one copy?"

"Yeah."

"Who rented it?"

Sneezy answered through his handkerchief. "Regina."

* * *

As he marched to the ex-mayor's mansion (one of these days, Regina's continued residency, rent-free, in a municipal property ought to be brought before the City Council), he rehearsed various tactics. He couldn't simply ask her for the loan of the DVD; he had to sneak up on the topic, then convince her it would be in her best interest to release the movie to him. So much work involved in that approach though. He could trade something: maybe that stash of vintage Archie comic books in his shop. He was the only person in town who knew she was a Veronica/Archie shipper. He'd kept her secret all these years, supplying her growing habit with a weekly fresh shipment. He could threaten to expose her if she didn't give him the movie.

He supposed, if all else failed, he could chop down her apple tree if she didn't surrender the DVD. He wondered if Ms. Swan still had that chainsaw.

Standing on her porch now, he was no closer to choosing between threats or deals. She opened the door a smidgen, just in case it might be Whale on the stoop. "Oh." She sounded disappointed. "You." She allowed him to enter, but only as far as the foyer. "What do you want?"

"Good afternoon to you, too," he said, a little miffed. He opened his mouth, prepared to roll out the big guns: threaten to reveal to the public that for five years now she'd been using Nice 'n Easy Gray Solution, which she bought over the Internet and had delivered to a p. o. box. But something in her expression changed his mind. She seemed listless and depressed, not Regina-y at all, and then he caught sight of a handmade Valentine on the marble table where she kept her purse, and he then understood. He remembered David and Henry talking yesterday about their big plans for a Valentine's Day dinner with Emma, Snow and Bae, and he realized now that one of the clan had been left off the invitation list. Most likely, Regina would be celebrating the holiday alone.

Well, the woman who had lied to Rumple about Belle's death and then kept Belle locked up for twenty-eight years and then, as if that weren't enough, had created Lacey–that evil witch didn't deserve sympathy, wouldn't have accepted it anyway. But the lost expression on her face just took all the fun out of blackmail.

"What do you want, Rumple?" she repeated. "Come to gloat because your lover is alive and mine isn't?"

"No. I just came to ask"–he wouldn't say "a favor," because that implied he would owe her. "To borrow something. I'll return it in the morning." It was the first time in their long history together that he had asked for something straight out. "I'd like to borrow _The_ _Vow_ from you. Clark says you rented it."

Apparently his request sounded strange to her too; its simplicity pushed her off-balance. "Oh. Okay." She motioned to invite him into the parlor. "I was done with it anyway. I'll just go get it."As easy as that? Would she trick him later, then? He heard her footfalls, heavy and slow on the stairs as they went up, paused, then came down. As he waited, he admired the many photos of Henry she'd hung on the parlor walls. There were even a few of Cora. He wondered what Regina thought when she watched TV in this room alone at night, surrounded by Henrys and Coras.

She came back into the room, her heels making no sound now as they struck the thick carpet. She handed him the DVD. "Here. You can take it back to Clark's when you're done."

He took the DVD but shuffled his feet. "Regina, I, uh, I wonder if you'd like to see some pictures of Henry that I took yesterday. David was teaching him to drive a carriage."

Her face brightened instantly. "Oh really? Driving?"

He brought the photos up on his phone and let her scroll through them, chuckling and commenting on them.

"He's taking riding lessons as well," Rumple offered. "As I recall, you were quite the equestrienne once. Maybe you should take him riding."

"I should, shouldn't I?" She looked so much younger now, scrolling through the photos. "I rode jumpers, back in the day. Henry and I have never ridden together."

"Why not?"

She frowned as if unable to remember. "I should take him, shouldn't I?"

"I've been teaching him to spin. He ought to learn a skill from you, too." He pocketed his phone. "I should get going. Thanks for the DVD."

Regina drew in a cleansing breath. "Thank you."

* * *

Half-asleep with her head on his knee, Belle clicked the remote control off. "Every time I see it, that movie gets to me. Thank you, my love. I know it's not your taste in movies."

"Perhaps not," he admitted, "but there's nobody I'd rather share my popcorn with than you."

"Perfect night. Thank you."

"There's one more to come. Save tomorrow for me."

* * *

**Fifth Valentine**

The last Rumbelle (he discovered he liked that name, though he did wonder if the fandom had a "Golden Belle" chapter) story had a roses motif. Trouble was, there was only one place in Storybrooke where roses could be obtained in February, and there was no way on the gods' green earth Rumple was going _there_.

So how was it, he asked himself, that the Caddy just happened to pull up alongside the curb in front of Game of Thorns?

"Gold!" Moe fumbled beneath the counter for something as Rumple crossed the threshold of the flower shop. His hand jerked up, brandishing a trowel; when he realized his mistake, he dove his hand back down and fumbled until he found his Smith & Wesson. "Get out! I have a restaining order and a gun and I'll use them both."

As he stared into the barrel of the gun, Rumple knew what he had to do, no matter how painful. "Five minutes, that's all I'm asking. Please. I came to explain my actions, last Valentine's Day. I believed a lie, told to me by someone I knew I shouldn't trust, but I believed her because it was the sort of lie I expected to be the truth, because I always believed the worst. I was told, back in the Enchanted Forest, you had tortured Belle and caused her to die, and so, when the curse broke for me here, I broke too, and I wanted to hurt you for hurting her. I know it's impossible to understand, but she and I loved each other then, and we do now. It's real, it's forever, and it's good for both of us. I understand that you can't see that; I couldn't either, for a very long time. But I see myself, very slowly, changing to be the sort of man she believes I can be, and I see her changing too, because of me, in ways that are good for her. If you'll watch, I think you'll see that too. There's so much bad blood between you and me, we may never get over it, but the thing is, Belle loves you and I think she'd be happier with you in her life, if you could just. . .accept her choices, quit judging her and just love her. That's all, just love her."

Rumple noticed Moe hadn't lowered the gun, but he hadn't called the sheriff yet either. "I didn't come to apologize. I should, but I can't bring myself to do it yet. And I didn't come to harrass you, though I'm sure you think I did. I came to give you your van back; Dove will deliver it this morning so you can make your deliveries. And I came to buy as many roses as you have left, to be delivered today, to the public library, along with all your carnations and daisies and orchids and whatever else; I want to fill the library with flowers, so that when she comes into work this morning her day will be full of color."

Moe gaped, lowering the gun. "You're crazy."

"I'm in love, Mr. French. Can you do that, fill the library with flowers before it opens at ten, if I give you the key?"

"It'll cost you plenty, but I can do it."

"Then do it." Rumple tore a check from his checkbook and signed it, leaving the amount blank. "And there's one more thing I'm asking you to do. I have a reservation at the Enchanted Rose tonight, a table in one of their private rooms. I wanted to give Belle a Valentine's Day as special as she is. I'd like you to go in my place, Mr. French. Enjoy an evening with your daughter. She deserves it. She needs both of us in her life. You and I might never be able to sit down to dinner together without wanting to poison each other, but we can give her this much, can't we?"

Moe's jaw worked as he deliberated.

Rumple growled, "For gods' sakes, it's not a trick! She'll be there at seven, in her prettiest dress. Don't make her have her Valentine's dinner alone." He slammed the door as he walked out.

* * *

Sometimes Rumple just didn't understand the things he did. This was one of those times: giving up a date he was very much looking forward to, and quite possibly so that Belle would have her heart broken again by a father who either stood her up or harangued her over Chicken Cordon Bleu for Two.

Damn it, Rumple really did have an appetite for chicken cordon bleu tonight.

She phoned as he was slapping a slice of baloney on rye. "My papa's here! He just went to the restroom to wash up. Oh, Rumple, for you to give up your holiday for him–this wonderful dinner–all those flowers in the library–I can't tell you what this means to me. The way you love me, I just. . ." she started to sob.

"Belle? Sweetheart, are you okay?" He gripped the phone. "Did I mess it up? Should I not have sent your father? Are you upset?"

"No, no, no, Rumple, I'm crying because I'm happy. Because you love me this much, to do all this for me. Our five dates have been perfect, and I just wanted to thank you, and to say save tomorrow for me, so I can show you what you mean to me."

He'd done the right thing, then, given her the Valentines she'd always remember. "Tomorrow is yours, Belle. All my tomorrows."

* * *

**Belle's Valentine**

"I have a secret," Belle confessed as she led him by the hand out of his shop. "I intended to show it to you last night, but you surprised me with the best gift anyone has ever given me."

So the baloney sandwich sacrifice had not been in vain. "The dinner went well, I take it."

"Hey, Rumple. Hey, Belle." David greeted them as he passed them on the sidewalk and climbed into his pickup.

"Hey, David," the pawnbroker answered before returning his attention to his lady fair. "Did you have the chicken cordon bleu?"

"Papa needs to watch his cholesterol, so we went with the tilapia."

"Pity." But he smiled a secret smile.

A cheery voice called to them from the entrance to Granny's across the street. "Morning, Rumple, Belle." Ruby waved and gestured to the sandwich board she was setting up. "We're testing a new dessert: creme brule. Come by for lunch and tell us if we should add it to the menu."

"We'll do that, Red. Thanks." Returning to Belle, he hinted, "And the conversation, was that also satisfactory?"

"There were no last-minute conversions, no apologies or acceptance of guilt, but Papa and I talked. Nothing of consequence, but I guess it's what he didn't say that matters. He didn't talk you down or try to convince me to leave you." They rounded a corner and he surmised now she was taking him to the library.

"So: progress."

She nodded. "Progress. Speaking of which, while you were in Neverland, I made some."

"I should say so. A mayor and a mage: that's quite impressive, dear heart."

"Thank you, but I meant something else. You'll see in a minute."

As they entered the crosswalk, Regina brushed past them, in her usual morning snit, but surprisingly, she offered a greeting to them–and for once, she didn't sound sarcastic. Belle's eyebrows shot up. After they'd cleared the intersection, she drew up short. "Something funny's going on here." She cocked her head. "People are being nice to you. And you're being nice back!"

"Am I?" He pressed his palm to his forehead. "Maybe I'm coming down with something."

She gave him an annoyed little push, and right there on the mid-morning sidewalk, for all of Storybrooke to stare at, the meanest man in town gathered his lady into his arms. "Or maybe it's the work of the Beast Tamer."

"Not a beast," she argued. "My lionheart." She tugged at his hand. "Come on, then, I want to show you my baby."

" Your. . .baby, did you say?" He gulped, but she just laughed.

As he had anticipated, she directed him another block north towards the library, but instead of going inside, she pulled him around back to the parking lot. She stopped and spread her arms. "Ta-da!"

He looked around, then guessed, "You bought a new book drop?"

"No!" She grasped his shoulders and spun him around to face a gold Firebird. She slid a key into the passenger door and gestured grandly. "Climb in, we're going for a ride."

"But shouldn't I–". He gestured to the driver's side, which she now had open.

"Nope!" Belle clambered behind the wheel. "For the first time ever, I'm doing the driving!"

He didn't hesitate to seat himself on the passenger side: he trusted her implicitly. "Belle! You learned to drive?"

"Leroy taught me." She turned the key in the ignition. "Listen to my baby coo. Isn't she sweet?"

Relieved, he fastened his seat belt and stretched out his legs in the roomy space. "A mayor, a mage, and now a driver. You're an impressive woman, Ms. French."

"Thank you, Mr. Gold." She swung the big car into the street, then cast a thoughtful glance at him as she stopped for the red light. "I'm impressed too, with the man you've become. . .the man you always were."

"I just finally woke up to the fact that love is a much more reliable thing to lean on than magic."

She grinned at him. "Go on, then, say it. I promise I'll say it back."

He chuckled. "Oh, I intend to, every day of my life." He rolled down the window and flicked his hand into the air. "There. Look up, Belle."

Puzzled, she rolled down her window too and glanced at the sky. "What–oh!"

A flock of birds suddenly broke out of their "v" formation and reconfigured themselves into eight letters: "i-l-o-v-e-y-o-u."

He flicked his hand and the birds returned to their natural formation. "I do love you, Belle. You've made me a better man, and I'll go anywhere you lead."

"I love you, too, Rumple, and I'm proud to stand beside you."

* * *

That evening, he flipped open his laptop. He had more plans to make and needed more direction. Summoning his old friend Google, he wondered if any of these Rumbelle writers had any romantic ideas for wedding proposals.


End file.
